The Shadows Climb
by randomismyname
Summary: Deceit. Betrayal. Murder. He knew of their existence, and had fought them many times. But when Amestris, swelling with greed and thirsting for wealth, sets its eyes on war-torn Britain, he finds his knowledge of these sins grows more intimate.
1. Prologue

A/N: Right, well, this has been bubbling away in my thoughts for some time, and I've only just managed to summon the strength to write it, let alone put it up here for you to read, so please be kind. Before you start, you ARE meant to be confused. If you aren't; not even a little bit, then I'm a bad writer and I should just stop now. But...I don't want to, so I won't. Any Japanese used in this IS correct and I won't be translating it unless you ask; not being able to speak a language is a social block and does cause confusion, which is precisely what I've been trying to do here: IT IS A WRITING DEVICE! So please, before anyone has a go at me because they can't understand, just know that it will not change!

However, that's not to say that the whole thing will be in Japanese; it won't. It might crop up now and then in later chapters, but mostly I'll make it clear what's being said, and if I don't, then it's because you're not meant to know.

You should also know, if you haven't already guessed, that this story starts at the end (or close enough to it) and then fills out with each chapter...ah, you'll see.

Disclaimer: I does not own. Not in any ways, noes I does not. That is all I has to says on the matter.

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The Shadows Climb

Prologue

They were running; running so fast and so hard that they could have been flying. Their feet lifted earth, spun leaves and kicked heavily at rotting stumps of wood and lichen-covered rock, their tread cacophonous in the supposed stillness of the forest. Everything was dark, shaded and deep, and as they darted over the sodden, mud covered ground, swerving to avoid the domineering columns that blocked their path, they would catch, just occasionally, the sinister yellow points of the eyes of _creatures, _unblinking and scurrying through the decaying undergrowth.

Their breath was loud. It carried more than they would have liked, and only a sidelong glance from one to the other would ease them in knowing that it was human noises they heard and not the heavy, uninvited rasp of something sporting a large set of teeth and sharp claws.

Shredded and greying cloth whipped about their haggard, lithe frames without vigour, and the gold glowing hair of one had loosened from its previous constraints and now lashed at the air behind it, tangled and drying in clumps where a red, now turning black, substance had laid claim. This one, shorter than the other, ran with strong, determined strides, his gait rhythmic and quick and his face, fine boned but worn, contorted with single-minded fury, jaw locked tight.

The other, lankier and darker, ran blindly, panic lacing his long features and concern lighting the green irises of almond shaped orbs. His hands might lash out, snagging themselves on a waiting claw-like twig and tearing the skin, though this thankfully never damaged the slim wooden rod that was clutched tightly in the palm of his right.

It was so quiet; they could hear only themselves; not even the distant sounds of the raging storm taking place _at that moment_ just beyond the trees could be made out over the deadening silence.

Then something snapped.

Beside the tall one, the other jerked to a halt, feet tripping and limbs trembling with the rush of adrenalin, wide tawny eyes snapping darkly from one looming shadow to the next, wary of the whispering branches that swayed and tugged at the rags of his clothes.

He - the tall one - had stopped too, knowing that whatever had caused his cautious companion alarm was surely nothing to be taken lightly, and so he stood bent double, both in an attempt at catching his runaway breath and at searching the pillars of trees for something of a more predatory nature.

All kinds of things lived in this darkness.

And few were of a sort he would be willing to associate with.

A sharp breath drew his attention to the drained face of his friend, and following the fixed gaze to a space high above the forest floor; his own stare met the black silhouette of something crouched, hunched and tense. Even without the light facing it directly, the same glow that could be seen in the eyes of the scuttling rodents was found there, though the spark was too large, and the tone, where before all had been a luminescent yellow, was instead a sickly, bright violet. The moonlight, old and withering, cast a hollow white glow from behind its body and wild long hair, and with each distant twitch of what he assumed was flesh, he felt the dampened panic within him grow.

It had seen them.

But they couldn't stop now; he had to go; had to find them; make sure they were safe. He didn't have time for whatever new threat this was.

He raised his arm without thinking, the previously forgotten shaft held firmly in his palm as it was pointed directly at the hunting animal, hardly taking in the coiling of its body as it prepared to spring.

"Stupi-!"

A solid mass of muscle, bone and metal rammed into him, knocking him off balance and sending him, eyelids screwed shut, crashing past the nearest tree, dislodging chunks of putrid bark and throwing up dank, mossy soil, his body sliding to the bottom to be held between curling roots and waving ferns. Automatically, he whipped his arm back once again, fright drawing a high snarl from his lips.

"_Don't_."

He stopped.

The voice; he recognised it as his companion's, hissed harshly through gritted teeth, and lowering his weapon, his gaze found that of the boy's above him. The expression, where it had before been so purposeful, was now frozen with terror, the fingers of both hands, one of them bitterly cold, biting into his arms.

The gold crowned head cracked upwards again, eyes searching the higher branches for whatever they had both seen, and, on peering closer at the taught, concentrated lines of the fair-skinned face, he realised that the boy was a good deal more informed than he was.

"What is tha-?"

"_Shh!"_

Irritated by this, he struggled against the tight grip, trying to see past his friend's shoulders.

"Seriously, Ed, wha-?"

"_Shut up, Harry!"_

A loud rustle sounded from above.

Too late, he realised his mistake, and now, his own limbs stiffening with horror, his eyes slid to the blank patch of moonlight in which they had once stood, responding to the sound of a dampened, heavy thud.

The space was no longer empty.

The figure was unmoving, unblinking and terrifyingly silent. Through the curtains of greenish black hair, falling in thick, unnatural chunks, Harry could just make out a sharp, pointed face and malicious shining eyes, the violent colour of them undimmed and knife-like in the gloom of the midnight forest. But perhaps the most frightening thing of all, even above the freakish stillness and twisted, enormous glow, was the smile; fixed and unfeeling, pointed teeth glittering and lips red and drawn. It was a smile of utmost cruelty; of mad intelligence and base humour, the features stretched and bent in ways that belied its humanoid appearance, and as Harry tried fleetingly to regain control of his immobile legs, he saw the mouth widen further.

It stepped forward.

Edward's grip on his arm was tightening unbearably, the nails of his live hand driving into his sweat-slicked skin and dragging a low hiss from Harry's lips. But he wouldn't let go. Had Harry been able to turn his head, he might have noticed the desperation in the other's eyes, the agonised turn of the brows and furious set of the jaw. He might have seen the defensive way in which Edward placed himself between the beast and his fallen figure, and the way the right arm, glittering with the reflections of the cold light, was held ready before his body.

But he didn't see; didn't think to look. Instead, his heart pumping viciously with terror, he fought the urge to scrabble back through the ferns where the possibility of safety called, and watched, petrified, as the creature opened its grinning mouth.

"Konbanwa, Hagane no ochibi-san."

Harry blinked in confusion; the voice was higher than he thought it would be, and unmistakably human. Though, that wasn't to say that it carried any human warmth; quite the opposite. It was mocking and cold, harsh and nasal, and with each incomprehensible spoken word, Ed tensed further above him, growling darkly.

Seeing this, the creature took another step forward, its hard torso, only partially covered by a black, tight material, bending itself into a more casual, disdainful posture, its head tilting and a brief snort of laughter following, Harry assumed, whatever comment had just been made.

It moved to talk again, the sounds and movements indicating speech, but nothing understandable reaching his ears. It was agonising. The more the thing spoke, the more Harry felt as though it was speaking of him, and on feeling Ed shift further over him, he could only assume that he really didn't want to stay to find out what was being said.

Tearing his eyes away from the now cackling figure of the creature, he glanced down at the shaft of wood in his fist, the inconsequential colour of it merging with the putrid mud of decaying leaves and the mottled blackness of its shadows.

Obviously, the being was hostile: he had never seen Edward so shaken, even through all of the other horrors they had experienced. Ed knew what it was, and he knew what it was saying; Harry could only assume that it was something from the boy's past, and from what he had heard, he definitely didn't want that past to catch up with their present.

He had to do something.

His fingers tightened in preparation; his mind, searching for a command that would incapacitate the monster, struggling under the weight of his fear. But even before he could raise his arm, the purple eyes, previously engaged with Edward's, slid knowingly over to his own. Malevolent, shining and oddly satisfied, they dared him to move, dared him to speak, dared him to so as much as _twitch_ towards an attack. Frozen under that deadly stare, Harry could only shake, unable to act in the face of something he understood absolutely nothing of. The creature found this amusing.

"Hah! Honto baka da ne!"

A harsh laugh burst from its lips before it smirked again at Edward, a stream of rapid sounds, all of them sharp and piercing, pouring forth. The flaxen head flinched, teeth grinding and eyes crammed shut in denial, a quiet, desperate moan rising up his throat as, for the first time, he attempted a defiant, but weak, reply.

"Urusai, Envy." The words, whatever their meaning, were choked and anguished, but the creature, unaffected by the emotion, merely sneered in incredulous disappointment, one long, high-arched eyebrow lifting to its hairline.

"'Urusai'? Yare, yare..."

Again, the words began to flow too rapidly for Harry to pick up, his confusion mounting as the conversation grew more and more heated; Ed's voice rising to a husky shout, throwing his arms out and smashing his fists against the ground.

"Yame!"

"Darashine na."

The words were spat, the humour gone. Its face, the pointed lines hard and determined, no longer smiled, but instead stared with a dark intensity that threatened violence, its fists working at its sides and shoulders hunched.

"Ima."

"Demo-"

The word was repeated, louder and more forcefully, the following sentences hissed instead of spoken. Edward was trembling, his loose, shining hair hanging over downcast eyes and his skin, drawn tight over his cheekbones, streaked with dirt and sweat. The creature finished, its ominous tone hanging in the air between them, and slowly, his frame sagging, Ed dropped his arm and made to stand.

"Wakatta."

The casual smile returned.

"Ii darou. Hayaku shiro."

Confused, Harry fought to speak, his throat dry and tongue heavy, his brain too numb to comprehend what was happening.

"W-what's going on? Ed?"

The creature hummed with laughter, its grin manic as it watched Ed rise to his feet, his body swaying with exhaustion. Edward didn't answer.

"Ed? What's happening? Why aren't you-?"

This time, the laugh screeched louder and, without waiting for an invitation, the monster stalked forward, its bare feet cracking plant, wood and stone as it came to a stop above Harry. One pale hand clamped down on Ed's shoulder in what might be seen as a gesture of benign familiarity, but its face, smiling and over-friendly, suggested it to be more a reminder than anything else.

"Doesn't matter."

Ed's head jerked slightly towards the alien sound of the creature's English, his face shadowed by his matted flop of tangled hair. Violet lamps of eyes swung back to his lowered countenance, the claw-like fingers drilling prominent dents into the fabric of his frayed shirt, beads of something bright, red and fresh pooling about the nail-bitten skin beneath.

"Remember why you came here, kokka renkinjitsushi-san."

There was a moment of thunderous silence.

The creature's hand slipped carefully from its post.

Without once glancing up, Edward began to shift, his body turning slowly round to face Harry. The light danced through a tangled net of darkness, slanting over the barely discernable movement of tensing muscle and trembling metal. Not understanding, the taller boy made to stand, his cluttered thoughts burning with the presence of unasked, pressing questions. One made its way to his lips, his voice low and hollow.

"What does he mean? What does he mean; 'why you came he-?"

"I told you. It doesn't matter."

Harry's face convulsed with repressed bewilderment and accusation, rising to his feet and leaning heavily against the rough, tearing bark of the tree. The creature retreated then, eyes on Harry; heavy footsteps thudding towards the close, ever lengthening shade. Teeth luminous and heavy locks shuddering with depraved glee, it remained, purposefully, near enough that neither could hope to ignore its presence.

What was this? Why _had_ Edward come here? Could he really trust him? Ron and Hermione always sai-

He cut himself short. He knew Edward; his friend, no matter how slim a time he had known him for, had never once failed to protect, to _support_ him, even through those moments in which _they_ had abandoned him. He _knew_ he could trust Edward. But what was this...?

The gold head had not returned from its withdrawn pose; odd, wrenching croaks emanating from his slight, seemingly shrinking frame as he raised his right arm, the steel reflections blinding in the empty forest's gloom. The glinting palm was spread, raised towards him and shaking with an unnameable effort. Harry recognised the pose well, and fought the instinct to run; it couldn't mean what he thought it did; surely this was a ruse, a means for buying time?

Harry couldn't see his face.

The air around them seemed to grow heavy, a latent pressure pushing it, almost visibly, to the stiff figure's hand, around which it seemed to congregate, building and pulsating with an intense air of threat. The rolling orb of nothing began to glow reluctantly, casting an eerie, ethereal light about the repugnant undergrowth, smothering the flame of purple that watched from aside and pulling into sharper definition the rotting leaves and earth at his feet.

Still, he couldn't see Edward's eyes.

The boy's voice choked into life.

"I'm sorry."

Harry's eyes widened. He couldn't mean-

"You-!"

"I'm sorry!"

There was a flash of green, a tortured wail, a frenzied cackle-

And nothing.

* * *

Review? Please?

I know it's veeeeeery confusing (unless that's just me), but all WILL be explained eventually...

Also, updates might be a tad slow; I take a while to write.

Please?


	2. Overcast

A/N:Okay, maaaaany, many things to say here: first of all, thanks! I have never had that many reviews for a first chapter _ever, _so you can't imagine how happy I am! Thank you!

Now, I've just got a couple of things to say before the next chapter comes out regarding characters. Edward is not the only main character in this story. He is the one who will feature most often, but he's not the only one, and before nayone says anything, the story can't work any other way! So, the characters [FMA]: Edward Elric, Ling Yao, Roy Mustang, Zolf J. Kimblee and Envy...with a few others around the edges...that's definitely not to say that they'll be appearing all the time, but they are major players! If you're wondering why I'm telling you this, then it's because I don't want confusion when a chapter opens to a seemingly completely different storyline.

Next! Something I forgot to mention last time, I think: this story jumps all over the place in terms of time, so even though it's gone back here, you STILL won't get the full picture...though it may start to become a little more obvious from now on...

Please stick with this chapter and don't hate me for writing it...I spent a month on it...and it killed me...

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Chapter 1: Overcast 

"From Amestris?"

The larger of the two leaned heavily back into the slim wooden chair, the frame creaking with the strain of holding itself together, and a light scraping accompanying; the man's weight had inadvertently pushed it over the roughly hewn stone slabs that carpeted the ground.

"Yes; the small country to the east." The man's brow crumpled as his arm gestured loosely to his companion. "You know the one I mean..."

The other went still for moment, thinking. His own perch was of a somewhat more rudimentary nature, and though he was certainly not the type to frequent tables for his relaxation, the sparse room offered so little in the way of comfort that it left him no alternative. He was tired; the heat of the fire (and lord be praised that there was any heat at all) was lulling him into a hesitant torpor, and the words took longer than they should have to reach his usually keen mind. He supposed he should have an early night.

Running his hands distractedly over his face, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs and sturdy fingers dangling before the sputtering flames.

"But why send one person?" He let out a short, breathy laugh. "Surely if they were serious about helping us, they'd send an army!"

The other shifted with a light groan, nodding his large, balding head sagely and allowing his hooded eyelids to sink shut.

"That's what I said. But they replied that the one they're sending over is 'worth all that and more'." His thick eyebrows rose in quiet incredulity. "He's meant to be one of the best."

"But..." Uncomfortable, and wishing he'd arrived earlier- the better to swipe the chair-, he slid from the half-polished surface before he could allow the table to distort his numbing legs further, his face forming a hesitant frown. "That country doesn't even use magic; are you saying they're giving us a muggle fighter?"

The response confirming these thoughts was not received well.

"This guy'll get killed within the first five minutes of being here! He probably hasn't a clue!"

"Again, that's what I said. But they were _insistent_..."

An almost-choke sounded from the corner of the room to which the more melodramatic of the two had recently travelled, and the other watched, in some amusement, his arms; flapping slightly in a confused mixture of folding and wild gesticulation. The sounds of his feet echoed.

"'Insistent'? How can we know if we should even trust him? This whole thing makes no sense!"

"I understand." His tone was placating. "But, you said it yourself; I doubt he knows or understands much beyond the basics of our culture: if he tries anything, then we have the advantage. And-" Here he threw a sharp look across the waving shadows. "-they're posting him whether _we_ like it or not."

There was a pause in which small, clear eyes drove into distressed brown, and willing himself into submission, the other whistled a sigh.

"How's he getting here?"

"Portkey. Any other travel arrangements are being handled by his government."

The blue orbs watched his tired sloping as he trudged to the door, a lined hand reaching for the black-tarred latch and his back turning slowly to face his seated companion.

"So, the enemy can't track him?"

"Right."

The latch clicked.

"Thanks. I'll let Arthur know in the morning."

Moaning in protest, the door gave way to a bitter-slow breeze, the rush of rippling grasses sweeping through the bare room, a pale half moon glancing off the fibred wood and mottled stone of the frame. The man set a foot over the threshold.

"You take care of yourself now." Still slumped in his chair, the other attempted to huddle closer to the rest of his limbs, the wind causing his puckered skin some amount of discomfort. "Get some sleep."

The tired one nodded absently, already focused on leaving the dry, dark room and its equally sobering resident.

"Bye."

He stepped out. The door swung shut. Once again, the room fell silent, but for the occasional squirming of the still occupied chair.

* * *

The clouds moved quickly.

Dark, thick and weighted, they rushed above with a violent enthusiasm, the dank, cloying air heralding the threatening presence of the storm. Short grass lashed in waves at their feet; the thin, flat surfaces reflecting the whites and blacks of the sky, and the heavy coiled air stampeding across rolling hills and battered forests.

"Just a little further now!"

Over the crushing noise of the gale, the voice could barely be heard; the volume fluctuating between a recognisable shout and a muted whisper depending on the wind's volatile mood. Through his uncontrolled mess of whipping gold hair, Edward only just caught their flame-headed guide raising his arm in a vain attempt at gesturing ahead, only to have it knocked back into his face, his hanging sleeves sticking to the contours of his nose and leaving him in a muddled panic as to how he was to free himself. A short way ahead, the youngest of the group shook in a manner that suggested hidden laughter, though there was no need for it to be so; were the silver crowned nymph giggling in the man's ear he doubted the sound would have stretched far enough to be obvious.

Despite the girl's mischievous behaviour, neither parent seemed anything other than relieved; having already had to battle through several miles of so-called 'typical British weather' - the Portkey had carried them to the wrong location - both were exhausted, and in the case of the mother, close to collapse. Naturally, both husband and guide had spent more time than necessary fussing over her (feeding her weakness, in Ed's opinion), and now even later than they had been upon arrival, they were caught in the midst of a summer storm, the beginnings of rain falling against their scalps and the ominous crack of thunder resonating in their skulls.

He had to wonder if they had even heard of stamina training.

Frowning to himself, Ed hastily moved to quicken his pace, hands jammed in his pockets to keep the dark material from fanning out around him and easily drawing closer to the front, past the struggling family. He felt their eyes on his back as he strode ahead, no doubt as unnerved and suspicious as they had been on their first encounter. But, as it had been then, this was pointedly ignored, his efforts instead focused stubbornly on reaching that flat peak of the hill, over which apparently rested warmth, food and as much comfort as he could honestly expect from this unforgiving land.

It was a struggle, even for him. Although he did have an excuse: around the flesh that joined his limbs to cold metal a dull, squeezing ache had settled; the kind that burned through his insides and bubbled in the pit of his stomach, the pain raw and twisting. He hated the rain.

The man, 'Weasley', cast him an uncertain look when Edward appeared at his shoulder, doing his best to mask his nerves with an awkward smile that never lifted past his teeth, his tongue flicking over his lips. Ed kept his expression blank.

"Is...is everything alright?"

Thankfully able to both hear and understand the words, he nodded stoically, muttering in frustration when a thick strand of escaped hair jabbed at his eyes, making them water.

Throwing another twisting grin at him, the man turned rapidly away, suddenly more intent on reaching their destination than he had been all morning. Ed followed in silence, the calf muscles of his right leg protesting slightly as he forced a final leap from it, a sensation of reluctant relief sweeping through him at the sight of the downward slope and, just visible; the distant curl of smoke that signalled an awaiting full stomach and reprieve for his bruised foot. While he couldn't imagine it coming from the people, he could at least trust in solid walls and a fire to ease his disquiet.

Weasley, once Ed had summoned the will to turn to the man, was panting beside him; heaving chest and flared nostrils clear even through the rippling fabric of his peculiar clothes.

Were they all this unfit? The very fact that they were at war in this state was laughable to Edward: if they couldn't even walk a distance of ten miles without breaking a sweat, then how on earth did they manage to fight? Perhaps they threw petty insults at each other from behind their picnic baskets, words slurred by mouthfuls of cake. His lips tweaked at the thought. That would certainly explain Weasley's protruding stomach.

Edward didn't concern himself with looking back when he sensed the presence of the stragglers close behind him, more interested in the flitting movements of ant-like figures gathering about the remote house.

A welcoming committee?

He hadn't expected that. Frown deepening, he deliberately hung back as Weasley encouraged the others forward, head hanging to allow his sweeping hair to shield his eyes.

He wasn't aware of much about the workings of this society; so far, the people had seemed normal enough, if a little distant, and had treated him with a constant, courteous unwillingness, as though they suspected him of some small betrayal, or that he were an unwelcome house guest.

He blinked.

Well, that wasn't so far from the truth.

While he was certain the females travelling with him were an exception to the rule (they both gave off an air of distinct aloofness), those that he had come across had seemed painfully regular; plain faces, typical intelligence, simple personalities – they could easily have been shipped from the heart of suburbia in Amestris. Although, there was no denying that red hair was somewhat uncommon.

The only thing that _truly_ set them apart from the civilians he was familiar with was their 'magic'; a peculiar blend of what he assumed was alchemy and pure fiction. To summon a group of people from one land and deposit them in another was something that alchemists had been battling with for centuries, and were still no closer to discovering than they had been on starting. Most had given up.

The sensation of travelling by Portkey, he'd decided, was similarly unpleasant to that of having a sharp length of metal tugged through a person's abdomen: sudden dizziness, a racing heart and shaking limbs were the usual symptoms, though thankfully it would be under the influence of strong anaesthesia: it was lacking the gut-ripping pain. So, at the end of the day, it was considerably more enjoyable than his last encounter with long, pointy objects.

The muscles of his shoulder burned.

The light smattering of rain was beginning to grow more insistent, and on noticing the change of texture beneath his feet, Edward glanced up to see a narrow, well-trodden path that ended before a weather-greyed gate. Just beyond it, the cluster of bodies that had grabbed his attention earlier huddled in an unenthusiastic bunch, their hair and clothes, or at least what he could see of them, clinging to their skin, and even as he watched, one red-haired male shifted in discomfort, kicking at the muddy ground sulkily.

It wasn't until Edward glanced towards where the turbulent sky should have been that he noticed one vital, disturbing presence.

Looming over them in an obscene display of gravitational defiance, a cluttered array of brick, wood and slate had been mashed together, tilting in ways that denied the laws of physics and appearing liable to collapse from its arrangement of make-shift towers and chimneys; simply out of revulsion for having been made that way in the first place.

Supposedly, this had to be more work of what they called 'magic'.

Ed was too disgusted to look for long.

As their party approached the disgruntled group, Edward, deciding to confront the matter of his delicate sensibilities at a later date, slid carefully behind the swinging silver strands that waved over the mother's back, careful to remain as unnoticeable as possible and cursing his own gratefulness at the lack of _dramatic_ growth spurts that had occurred over recent years. Well, at least he could console himself with the knowledge that he was only a couple of inches smaller than this _abnormally_ tall female. He considered himself a comfortable average in the grand scheme of things.

Five feet and seven inches was a perfectly respectable height to be.

If only he could hit the six foot mark...

Ahead, Weasley was pushing the creaking gate forwards, smiling at the waiting people in a way that suggested supreme guilt and, with some difficulty, looping a frayed, discoloured scrap of rope around the stiff planks of wood, the wind aiding it in an attempt to escape the frail grasp of the human.

Edward and the family were ushered through into the rough courtyard, carefully avoiding deceptively deep puddles and the jagged edges of half buried flint, the glinting, dark planes eagerly watching for a chance to trip an unsuspecting walker and send them sprawling in the dirt.

"_Maman! Papa!" _

The shrill squeal that accompanied this had Ed shooting back a few paces, just in time to miss yet another mat of platinum hair devour his previous hiding place in a lung-crushing embrace, an equally enthusiastic, albeit tired, response being summoned from the accosted woman before him. Exchanges of a similar nature were made throughout the gladly reunited foreigners, and just as Edward was starting to wonder why on earth this couldn't be taken inside, _out_ of the clawing wind and battering rain, a stout, bright haired woman stepped to the front, voicing a more restrained, polite version of the irritable monologue grumbling away in his mind.

However, whether it was a matter of courtesy or mere simplicity, they, the guests, were sent through the doors of the rickety building first, thus drawing unwanted attention to the gold-blond hair, marginally shorter stature and conspicuously different facial structure of one Edward Elric, who understood that his attempts at remaining unnoticed were futile when he heard the not-so-subtle whispers from those behind him, curious voices carrying now that there was some shelter from the gale.

"_I never heard Fleur mention anything about a brother, did you?"_

"_No. Mum never said anything either."_

"_Maybe a relative?"_

"_Could be."_

"_But he looks so different-"_

"_He is blond."_

"_I know, but I don't think he can be-"_

And then a deeper voice:

"Stop gossiping. No doubt you'll find out soon enough."

"But-"

"Later." The speaker forced his tone into a patient, pacifying drone. "You'd better go inside and change; I'm not sure this weather will have done much for your health."

Huffing in annoyance, squelching footsteps followed Edward to the slippery stone steps of the entrance, their subdued disapproval obvious through the excitement and agitated discussion taking place up ahead.

Edward was less than pleased. While it might make his life a little easier if they made up his history on a whim, it was blindingly obvious that from now on, he would be dealing with obstinate curiosity enough to rival the Amestris State Interrogation Unit on a particularly bad day.

Or possibly even to rival himself.

Once far enough inside to be contentedly warm, he drew to a halt, pushing his back against the nearest wall and allowing himself to slide a fraction down it, feeling his coat get left behind; the coarse, wet fabric stuck to the slightly rough texture of paint-covered plaster and pulling uncomfortably at his underarms.

His eyes cast surreptitious glances about the room; a kitchen, if the rusting stove, table and pans were anything to go by. The surrounding walls, including the one on which he was taking refuge, were a pale cream, some areas towards the ceiling showing distinct signs of a leaking roof in their mottled yellow tones, and the air had a dank, cloying smell, although that, he supposed, could be attributed to the rain.

It was clear that these were not the most affluent of people. However, the house, no matter what its physical state, had a relaxing atmosphere, and even if the kitchen could have done with some refurbishment, a little way down the opposite corridor drifted a warm, bright glow, which he realised was where the other guests were currently heading under the supervision of one of the many red haired occupants.

But, it would appear that not all were interested enough in the heat of a fire or a comfortable chair to follow. Shifting at the corner of his vision were three soggy figures, standing close and tight in a short row, and if the raised hairs at the back of his neck told him anything, all were staring intently at him.

Nosy brats.

Willing himself to keep his expression neutral, he turned his gaze slowly in their direction, locking forcefully with the figure on the end- a girl with pale skin and long, tangled brown curls- and only just managing to hold in the smirk that sprang to life at the sight of her awkward flinch.

Apparently, gold eyes were just as unusual here as they were back home.

He held her eyes until they dropped a moment later, an embarrassed flush staining her cheeks as she shuffled further towards her companions. The one closest, baring what had to be a family curse of ginger locks, stepped stubbornly in front of her nervous body, his blue orbs burning with shallow suspicion and anger; elbow nudging the inconspicuous, bespectacled boy that frowned earnestly at Ed's hostile glare.

The riled one's lips parted in preparation, but before he could utter a single word, the stout woman from earlier bustled between them.

"Ron, I want you to take Mr and Mrs. Delacour's belongings to our bedroom; they'll be staying there 'til after the wedding."

A slack look of annoyance followed.

"But-"

"No buts! Now then, they arrived a short while before...where did I put them...? Ah, yes! And this must be Gabrielle's... Harry; help. Hermione..." She flapped her arms, eyes rolling skyward in her search for her latent vocabulary and wandering luggage. "...just...oh, entertain the guests, or something!"

A few raised eyebrows and grumbles later, and the inquisitive fools were filing out of the room, the two males now sinking to the floor with the pressure of their armfuls of tattered bags and boxes and the girl scuttling quickly past, her head ducked in embarrassment.

Evidently pleased that she had found a good enough excuse to be alone with the stranger, the woman turned on Ed next, freckled features crumpled in an intense examination of his face. He didn't appreciate the way she was scrutinising him; as though he were an unsolvable puzzle that badly needed fixing.

He straightened, his hands rammed into his pockets and downcast eyes glaring at the ground, following the cracks between the uneven tiles and resisting the violent urge to squirm.

His joints hurt so much.

Finally, she spoke.

"Hmm...Your name?"

The meaning was understood, so he answered without thinking.

"Edowaado Erurikku."

"I'm sorry?"

She was leaning away from him in confusion, blinking rapidly and shaking her head.

He took that to mean she hadn't recognised it.

Back pressed firmly against the wall again, his breath shot past his lips in a frustrated huff; mind running through the ridiculous complexities of their language and attempting to mould his name in its likeness. It was not pleasant; the sounds required him to deaden some syllables and draw out others, his 'r's having to roll into 'l's.

"Edward Elric."

Judging by the way her head bobbed positively, he seemed to have managed.

"Elric. That's an interesting name." Another way of saying 'odd'. "I think Arthur's just wanting to have a quick word with you, so if you'd like to wait here... I'm terribly sorry about that trouble with the Portkey; normally we wouldn't travel in a storm and that's exactly why. We've no idea what causes it, but magic used for long-distance moving tends to be a bit temperamental when there's bad weather...Oh, and my name's Molly; I'm Arthur's wife."

He nodded dully at her agitation, trying not to care that she, like the rest of those here, was clearly afraid of him.

"It is nice to meet you."

Her answering smile faltered.

"Yes. You too, dear." She hesitated. "I really should check on the others; make sure their happy..."

Another nod.

"Well then..."

The sound of the rain grew in his ears as her rushed footsteps faded through the echoing corridors ahead, and the door that had previously been closed on him- to keep in the heat- parted, allowing the glow to flood the empty stone with golden warmth once again.

Then the door shut, and the warmth was gone.

Only when he was certain he was alone did he allow his head to drop back against the wall, his eyelids sliding shut and hair fluttering over his neck in hard, rounded strings, undisturbed by his steady, rhythmic pulse that throbbed just beneath the pale skin.

The wind hammered against undulating panes of discoloured glass, reverberating around the open, dim room in a muffled cacophony of elemental displeasure and drowning even the sounds of his own breath; heavy under the weight of troubled thoughts and numbing pain.

The draught brushed over him, tightening his bared throat and face into a ghost of light goose-bumps and making him wish he had his red coat; never a chilly moment in that.

He was so tired.

He couldn't be certain of how long he stood there, slumped and exhausted, but he knew it wasn't much longer than a few minutes before loud, solid steps sounded against the slamming weather, forcing his gaze to return to the opposite edge where the shadows parted, revealing a less bedraggled Weasley and another man he did not recognise.

Edward pushed away from the wall; he wouldn't let them see how he felt. It wasn't their business.

"Ah, Mr. Elric. I take it Molly has already...? Well, yes, obviously she has." Weasley coughed. "Uh..."

He shuffled forwards; flustered.

Noticing his companion's inability to create coherent speech, the newcomer stepped past him, bringing his features into sharp relief now that he had left the darker part of the corridor behind. In the grey light, the lines of his face were set deep into the sickly pallor of his skin, and even his hair, though he couldn't have been more than forty, was silver and ragged against the washed out green of his shirt.

"We just need to have a talk; about why you're here, what's expected of you- that kind of thing. I'm sure you understand?"

Of course he did.

The voice, he realised, was that of the man who had prevented- even if not for long- the group of angry teenagers from raising one too many an opinion concerning Edward's background. Perhaps he had finally come across an individual who spoke sense and reason. What a nice thought.

The man's long, thin hand was gesturing towards a chair that waited a comfortable distance from Edward's body, and barely needing to convince his weary legs that there wasn't really much of an option, he found himself seated in its creaking, wooden frame, hardly noticing the others mimic his actions.

A particularly strong burst of rain hit the building, crashing into the windows.

His stomach gave a coiling lurch.

"So," The younger man was leaning his elbows on the table, face serious yet not unkind. "My name is Remus Lupin, and you've already met Arthur. Before we go any further...I don't mean to be rude, but I need to know how much English you can speak and understand. Otherwise this conversation might not get very far."

Edward lowered his head slightly, hoping his answer would be as articulate as it needed to be.

"I have not been learning so long, but I can speak enough to know what is said, and if I do not understand, I will ask."

Lupin nodded and sat back; satisfied.

"Fine. Then we can get on with things."

A slight motion drew Edward's attention to the red haired man, who was now indicating a single sheaf of paper, running it over the splintered, dark surface of the table towards him. Lupin continued.

"Everything we know about you and your country is on that one sheet. Other than that, we only have the geographical location of it and the name of your President. Amestris is far too insular for our liking. If you wish to gain our trust, we'll need a bit more than that."

"Like what?"

He wasn't sure he was comfortable with where this was going.

"We know your name, age, date of birth and rank, as well as having a good reference from your superior-" He cast a casual squint over the page. "-Lieutenant General Kimblee. Can you tell us anything more about yourself?"

"That is all you need to know."

The man let out a short breath of air, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back into his seat, the high pitched squeak barely heard over the rain's pounding.

"Okay, then what about the term 'State Alchemist'? No one here's familiar with it."

Well, he could answer that to an extent.

"It refers to people in army who use their..._skills_ to help in war."

Hoping that they wouldn't be overly thorough in their investigations, he left it at that, staring blankly as though waiting for the next question and tapping the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his chair. The two men remained silent, and just when Edward thought he might have got away with his vague statements, Lupin raised his brows, and he was forced to elaborate.

"They are all professional alchemists who are either asked to enter military or do exam to join it. Very few people can be State Alchemist; is difficult."

He ran a weary gloved hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead as his mind whirred; searching for a reasonable translation that could get his meaning across.

"Most join because they want to continue their research l-legally...?" Gold eyes darted upwards. "...Yes, legally, and cannot do so normal way. Others become State Alchemist so they can fight with the power. Because they like to fight." Here he cast a black glare towards the paper, focused on that one, familiar name. "Also, money is good and there are many privilege. But in exchange, they can ask you to do anything they want. Anything."

Lupin seemed uncertain, his pale eyebrows were drawn together and he was leaning forward again, torso pressed against the table, as though intensely interested.

"So why did you join?"

Ed shrugged.

"Research."

That earned a stare from both men; Weasley's mouth hanging open just slightly in surprise, though Edward couldn't fathom why. Had he mispronounced?

"It says here that you're eighteen: isn't that a bit young to join?"

Edward snorted incredulously, his shoulders hunching forwards and head dropping to face his knees, long hair falling over his rough-clothed chest and out of the loose restraints that had held it at his nape before.

"I did not join at eighteen, nor did I at seventeen. I was twelve."

"Twelve?"

Lupin's voice was louder than before, and perhaps a little strained.

"I am youngest." This was accompanied by another shrug.

"They let you join the army when you were twelve?"

He glanced up at the two men, unsurprised to find both casting meaningful looks at each other, their mouths turned down in grim, horrified disbelief. He had received much the same from the many other inquisitive individuals who had asked him about his profession.

"I was very skilled. I am still youngest. They do not care so much about age, because Alchemy is something mostly adults are good at, and children are not that interested anyway. Is unlikely anyone under thirty will pass exam. You would have to be a genius."

Lupin was nodding again, expression stern as he leaned back, perhaps deliberating his next move while Weasley cast anxious looks at the windows, obviously concerned for the welfare of his home as the glass was whipped about in its casing, transparent trails of rain staining the already cracked paint of the sill.

Another draught flew across Edward's skin, forcing from him an involuntary shiver that did less to warm him than he would have liked, and to counter it, he found his aching limbs drawing thin, dark material closer to his tired body, a sickening, silent grinding sensation writhing from his right shoulder to his shaking stomach. Something behind his eyes began to throb, pushing painfully and icily at the muscles there, yet burning enough that he longed for something cool to place his forehead against, if only for a minute.

The storm was showing no signs of releasing its vindictive grip any time soon.

"How about you tell us about Alchemy in Amestris?" That voice was starting to wear on his nerves; it was so measured, so collected and so annoyingly _strong_; did he not understand that Edward's head hurt? "I have a feeling yours is quite different to ours."

Another rough pound behind his eyeballs; he pushed the palm of his silver, hidden hand against the offending area, attempting to keep his stress levels to a minimum; his temper wouldn't help anything now.

And yet, when he spoke, the sound was impatient:

"Is science-"

"Science?"

Edward suppressed a growl; if they wanted an answer then surely it would be polite to wait until they actually _had_ it, rather than interrupt before a person could get his thoughts across.

However, Weasley, it seemed, couldn't have been more ecstatic. At the mention of what was to Edward a mundane yet fundamental piece of vocabulary, the red haired man was practically bouncing in his seat, cheeks flushed and eyes round as he eagerly filled in whatever piece Lupin was missing.

"Oh! Yes! It's a muggle technique! They use it instead of magic..." He stopped, gaze darting to the windows, which had taken up a constant, grating rattling in recent moments. "-very interesting, though it doesn't make a lot of sense..." Now a glance to the opposite one. "-'light bulbs' for instance; you plant them in your house and-"

"It makes much sense." Edward found his tone rising above that of the over-excited adult's, his worn eyes hitting blue in a severe mixture of muted pain and sheer annoyance, ever-glad when Weasley quailed under the firmness of his approach; silenced. If he had to listen to _one_ more second of that whining burble, his eardrums might bleed. "I do not know what 'muggle' is, but this is not science as you know it; is much more than that. Much more complex.

"From what I have read, your science is based mostly on theory and practice using...already made objects, but all is specific and must be applied carefully before use. For instance, you could not break something without first having means. Whether that be a hammer or a gun, something pre-prepared must be available, unless of course, you have super-strength."

He smirked quietly, his aching eyes resting on a grey patch of wall just above the dulled amber of Weasley's hair.

"With Alchemy, is different; the means is your mind, and not an object you already have. You think about the e...elements of thing you want to break, understand them, and 'go'."

Sensing the confusion in their silence, his gaze roved back to Lupin's, a deeper frown forming when he saw the man's brows flickering in incomprehension. He was surprised; it was alarmingly simple to him. Another muscle in his forehead clenched.

Ed shifted forwards in his chair, moving his feet into a comfortable parallel and raising his hands before him, ignoring the fresh wave of agony that tore through the joints of his arm. "I could show you?"

Lupin nodded openly, evidently somewhat relieved.

"Yes, by all means."

Placing his palms against the edge of the table, his arm muscles tensed, pushing both his chair and himself back over the displeased stone floor, the whining scrape digging holes in his head and, as though without really thinking of the consequences, he stood.

Fire. From the joints of his knee and shoulder, it ripped up his spine and sparked through his head, knocking his breath from him. His leg gave way, he stumbled slightly, his vision blacking; a harsh hiss of breath scored along the line of his clenched teeth as he fought the nausea sliding up his throat, and, left hand searching blindly for support, he half fell onto the table, momentarily unaware of anything but the sickening pain, the deadened thump of his body on wood and the still howling wind.

"Are you alright?"

They were close; he could feel their heat and their shifting from across the table. It was only then that he realised his eyes were clamped shut.

"Edward?"

He needed to open them; they couldn't see him like this; weak. Grasping for the effort needed, he forced a choked answer, his jaw too tight to shift properly.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

There was a hand hovering over his back now; he was sure of it. He hadn't even heard them move: his ears were ringing. Squeezing his lids tighter for just a moment, he wrenched his spine straight, ignoring the way he felt his head float then compress, as if the men had pressed a weight against it, and moved in a direction that he hoped was away from the table.

"I a-am fine."

Now breathing heavily through his nose, he tested the flesh around his burning ports, tensing, then relaxing, then tensing again. He stood there a moment longer, the dizziness starting to ebb and his feet set more solidly against the ground, the fingers he hadn't realised were curled into fists spread and hung limp at his shaken side.

His eyelids parted.

"I am fine."

His voice no longer shook.

The men were arranged awkwardly opposite him; Lupin with an arm half outstretched, bent forwards and only now returning to a more natural posture and Weasley a few paces behind, his face heavy with frown lines and his tongue pushing at his cheek. Both were standing.

Lupin, seemingly feigning nonchalance, placed a hand on his hip, head bent to face the now dented sheet of paper- perhaps from when Edward had tried to prevent his fall- and clearing his throat lightly, as though in an effort to start a new line of conversation.

"Your leg...it seems –"

"It is fine. No problems."

Before either could begin probing for answers to questions he wasn't prepared for, Edward limped stoically towards a space of clear floor, his back broad and stubborn.

"I will show now."

Heedless of any objection they might have shared, he turned and, lifting his protesting arms just a little, he brought his gloved palms together in a swift, sharp clap, his evident exhaustion causing them to misalign and glance off each other, though he paid it no mind. He dropped perhaps more clumsily than he would have liked, landing on his knees, the dull clang of his left thankfully drowned by the rain as his hands slapped down before him.

"Watch carefully."

From between his splayed fingers rose columns of charged, electric blue light, crackling and dancing over the slate-stone to form a circle of pulsing energy. The air grew dense, the sounds of the miniature lightning rods snapping about the room, and as the two men looked on, they saw the rock within the ring begin to twist, curving over itself and wriggling into the start of shapes. The light shone brighter, brighter, brighter still, before it died, sinking back to Edward's hands.

"This-" A frail gesture at the creation."-is basic example. I learn it when I was four."

It was, honestly, precisely what _wasn't_ expected. There, between the plots of stone previously occupied by Edward's limbs, was something resembling a poor recreation of a gothic gargoyle, all fangs, horns and peculiarly orientated spikes with bat wings sprouting from its spine, and yet Edward's face betrayed nothing. There was no indication that this was a joke, or that it was in any way unusual; his expression was flat, tired.

However, despite the unconventional apparition, Lupin and Weasley were silenced. Edward glanced with irritated disinterest from one stunned face to the other from his uncomfortable position several feet below, wishing that they would just stop staring and move on; they wouldn't truly understand what they had seen, no matter how long they studied.

"Wandless magic..."

"No." Before he could prevent it, his hand had, very obviously, risen to the point between his eyes to press in frustration. He was tired, he was in pain and he didn't want to have to deal with halfwits and myths until he could remove all of the above from his check list. "Alchemy. Not magic, _Alchemy_."

Perhaps sensing that his nerves were fraying rather faster than they should, Lupin cut in loudly:

"Yes...it is _very_ different." Lupin's eyebrows quirked as he leaned closer, his eyes flicking between Edward's hands and the miniature beast as he voiced his curiosities. "And you use it to fight?"

"Yes, that and other things." With a strained groan, Edward rose stiffly to his feet, one of which he did not seem to have placed down properly; he struggled to keep his balance. Eyes cast down and swaying slightly, he moved to lean against the wall, his shoulder pushed there with a false casualness - his stance looked too heavy; there was too much effort being placed into it. From his further distance, his voice was quieted by the rain. "Now it may not seem so, but it is actually very dangerous. We have won wars with it many times."

"I see." Lupin was then silent, and Weasley, no doubt curious, found his opportunity to ask lightly:

"Have you ever fought in one?"

Silence.

The look Edward gave him burned with an insulted intensity, and Weasley broke eye contact with him in favour of the floor, resting his backside on the edge of the table. Lupin looked uncomfortable. When he spoke, Edward was abrupt.

"Yes."

Still not quite understanding Edward's tone, Weasley continued blindly on, only the slightest hesitation showing when he broached his next question.

"Have...have you ever killed?"

Edward must have known it was coming, because his response was swift and carefully pronounced, purposefully loud enough to carry, and his entire frame stiffened noticeably against the stone wall, his jaw tightening.

"You have no right to ask that question. Is nothing for you."

The offending man shuffled sideways a little, putting another inch of distance between himself and the irate stranger and bowing slightly to hide the blotchy red that crawled up his cheeks, clashing unpleasantly with his hair.

"Right, yes, I apologise. I should have realised. Only recently, George- my son- his ear..."

He refused to look up.

It seemed the tension was proving too unforgiving for Lupin's tastes, as seconds later he stepped around the table, placing himself just in front of Weasley and raising the deformed sheet of paper coolly before him, drawing Edward's heated gaze.

"Anyway,-" His finger tapped a point on the page near the top. "-your name; Fullmetal Alchemist; what does it mean?"

Edward let loose a long, calming sigh and relaxed into the wall, his head knocking against the chilly cream coat of paint, and hair dangling around his shoulders and over the navy blue of his coat, one strand caught between his lips; the darker skin dry and cracked.

"It is name given to me by the Dai-uh..." His eyes shut for a moment, as though he were hardly able to keep them open, and the skin between them crumpled in concentration. With each pass of breath between his teeth, the single flaxen wisp fluttered, and when his heavy eyelids forced themselves open, he was able only to stare flatly at the chair and table legs; lifting them higher hurt. "Führer, I think you call it. All State Alchemists receive a title from him when they pass the exam. 'Fullmetal' is what he chose for me."

From the grey shadow's shifting, Edward could make out Lupin's nod.

"Any particular reason?"

"I mainly work with metals. They're my best." It was only half a lie; they would never know otherwise. "Also, Führer knows that I am stubborn person; Fullmetal can also mean stubbornness."

Lupin's shadow-head ducked again.

"Okay, and these other names?"

Another frown. His head lifted away from the hard plaster to better allow his glare to focus on Lupin's pale mouth.

"What other names?"

The dim light cast through the windows threw the man's figure into silhouette as Lupin walked a little closer to the source of grey whiteness, having to squint, though Edward could barely make it out, even when given the glow he needed to make out the unfamiliar titles.

"'Flame Alchemist'..." An uncomprehending eyebrow rose at the next. "'Crimson Lotus Alchemist'..."

Edward attempted to remain impassive when he heard both names. It was difficult.

"'Flame' because he is good with fire, and..." Sliding up further against the wall- he had realised moments before that he had slipped at least a foot, crumpling his frame to even smaller proportions than usual- he threw a more scrutinizing glance at the paper. "You say 'Kurimuzon Routusu'...is the name written down?"

"Yes."

"I would need to see..."

Without needing any further persuading, Lupin strode the three steps between them with a weary ease, thrusting the wrinkled sheet towards Edward's person. Barely summoning the strength to nod his thanks, Edward's left hand reached for it, the fabric of his gloves proving too slippery for a moment; the paper skidding through his fingertips before his grip tightened.

The sheet, now he had the chance to inspect it more closely, proved to be of little interest. It was a document like many others he'd seen in his time; the minute image of himself glowered with all the force he knew he himself held, the basic statistics were dotted beneath it: all of those the things listed by Lupin earlier. A few names and places stood out to him (the characters he was more familiar with typed just a space below the English) a couple causing his chest to constrict in ways he would rather not confront, and one, one in particular, that caused that clench to flare with loathing.

'_Guren no renkinjitsushi'._

He returned the paper.

"Ah..." He found that his voice remained quite steady. He was surprised. "He was given that title because he make...eto..." He cast a frustrated glare towards the rattling windows, his headache, smouldering anger and struggling vocabulary having him growing more and more incensed with each passing moment. "How do you call them?"

Using his left hand again, simply because he would rather use the one less likely to cause him insufferable pain, he balled it into a loose fist, before shooting his fingers into a wide, spread arch, the action accompanied by a rumbling burst of air from between his chapped lips.

Lupin looked utterly bewildered.

Unwilling to attempt a similar explanation a second time, Edward's mind sought after words or sounds that could best convey his meaning, although, it seemed he had little need to: still sheepish from his last encounter with Ed's temper, Weasley mumbled his guess.

"Explosions?"

Oh, the relief.

"Hai, explosions."

Again satisfied that he had received the answer he needed, the younger man's head bobbed in response, his mottled hair flicking haphazardly into pale hazel eyes. He glanced over the paper again.

"It says here that the 'Flame Alchemist' was your original superior-"

That didn't sound promising.

"-but now you have his rank and the 'Crimson Lotus Alchemist' has taken over that role." Edward's golden frown hit Lupin's swiftly. Lupin didn't drop his eyes. "Why?"

For a moment, they remained perfectly still; Edward's breathing, shallower than usual, slowed and his eyelids lowered slightly, though his gaze never left Lupin's. Silence echoed about the cold room, surprisingly loud over the battering weather and occasional laugh that drifted from the warm room down the hallway. Edward made his decision.

"I am afraid that is Military business. I am not to tell."

"And I am afraid that's precisely why we're asking. Changes in staffing of this kind are usually contributed to only two things: retirement or something much more serious...often politics. The more we know about you and your country, the easier things will be for all of us."

Edward's jaw jutted forwards, his slumped stance steady.

"It is Amestris Military business. I am not to tell."

The man's hands made an impatient gesture that resembled a form of spasm. Behind him, Weasley could only look at his windows.

"Well, it's not likely to-"

"I am not to tell."

Without warning, the paper in Lupin's palm was crushed, his teeth biting into his lip. He took a quick step towards Edward, his expression betraying signs of pent up tension and stress, before he thought better of whatever he had been about to do, taking an equally fast step back. He sucked in one deep, shuddering breath before he began again. Edward was taken aback, making note to watch for other signs of irrationality: he had taken Lupin for a calm man.

"Okay, I'm going to be as straight with you as I can." Another breath. "I don't know why you're here."

Weasley made a small movement.

"There isn't much I can tell you, because I don't know the half of it myself. All I do know is that our government was desperate, and yours was eager, and somehow, despite being the over-cautious man he is, the Minister accepted aid from a foreign country which he can't have known anything about. A country so isolated that not one person from it had ever been seen in this one, and certainly, we'd never even heard from their command, let alone been offered help! Yet, for some reason, this society's most secret and influential organisation has been put at risk."

He paused momentarily, the weight of his tone settling over the room.

"Why are you here?"

"You know."

"But honestly? Even if you can't tell us that, you could at least tell us what this-" He raised the ball of paper. "-Is all about."

"I cannot."

As he watched Lupin's angered body turn from him towards the table, a thought occurred to Edward; one that he found quite impossible to discard.

"There is...something I do not understand." The man's turn of the head indicated that he should go on. "I have heard very little about '_magic'_: it is not practiced in Amestris, nor am I comfortable with idea of it, but from what I have seen, it is capable of many thing."

Rolling his body 'til his back pressed against the wall instead of his side, he drew his frame to its fullest, ignoring the ache that gurgled in his stomach.

"What I cannot understand is why, when there are so many possibilities, you would not simply force the answer from me. Is probably easy."

It was Weasley who answered.

"The use of such spells is illegal-"

"You are at war: there is not such a thing."

Lupin's voice cut in harshly.

"It doesn't matter. For some _stupid_ reason, we agreed that the only interrogation permitted would be Muggle questioning. Your country never stated why, but the Minister agreed, and while he's in power, we have to obey...to some extent."

Both his meaning and his undercurrent of disapproval for these actions were clear, and Edward was not alone in spotting it: Weasley was looking the most sombre he had all day, his hands clasped on his knees. Well, at least he was capable of being serious.

"This, no matter how you look at it, is a risk for us. Scrimgeour may not mind an ignorant, highly suspicious Muggle wandering about in the Order's midst, but we value our lives, and there are people here who need protecting. Even if you aren't conspiring against us, how can you defend these people against the monsters that use magic for evil when you have never experienced it?"

"And how can you fight a war when all you have are little sticks that I could break without effort? You manage somehow, I think."

Lupin huffed in annoyance, spinning where he stood and running his fingers through the roots of his hair.

"That's not the point. The point is you know no magic, we don't really know who you are, we don't know what your country is, and now you're here and are meant to be protecting the most valuable individuals in our world. Do you understand why even the slightest piece of information regarding you and your country is essential to building trust between us?"

Edward waited before he spoke, mulling over his words carefully.

The wind rumbled a low moan, the roof above him creaking in pain as joint after joint strained against its strength. His own limbs trembled in response.

"That changes nothing. You talk of _your_ own security, but this is of _my_ country's. You said we were 'insular'. I am a soldier- a high ranking one-; to tell you of what happens there would be treason, and I may be executed for it. If I tell you 'you can't know', then you must believe it. I am honest. I come here to do my job."

The intensity of the following quiet far outstripped those that had come before, Lupin's stare searching Edward's and Weasley remaining completely still but for the sporadic glance towards the leaking windows. Edward's breathing had long since turned thin again, a light coating of sweat over his pale face causing him to take on an ethereal glow, the blues of his shadows brighter for the cold lighting.

Lupin's long awaited smile was taut.

"So, Colonel Edward Elric..." He spread an arm by his side. "Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix."

* * *

"This is yours."

Mrs. Weasley, or 'Molly', as he had been instructed to call her, tucked a stray tumble of fiery hair over her ear as she puffed out her rapid spurts of breath, her chest and shoulders shifting as she eyed the winding stairs to their right with great resentment. Edward, who was also feeling the effect of the climb in his already stressed limbs, was making a conscious effort to prevent his pointy, solid suitcase from turning his one remaining leg purple. He hoped she would hurry up.

The object she had been discussing was a dark wooden door, black almost, next to the sallow paint, and stood directly opposite them in the tight space of the corridor. The windows here were small, but appeared frequently on the wall behind them, illuminating everything with a dull glow that did more to lengthen the shadows than it did to aid sight. These rattled more than those downstairs.

"You'll be sharing with Bill, I'm afraid, 'til Charlie gets here. After that...well, I'll think of something. As you might have noticed-"

She gathered herself, striding briskly to the indicated door.

"We are somewhat overwhelmed right now."

Dropping a small hand onto the dented handle, she twisted, thrusting the panel away from her and trotting over the threshold, her gaze casting about the room purposefully, probably in a search for irritating anomalies. She found nothing, so she turned back to Edward, who waited silently in the frame, taking in the surroundings that would be his for however many nights to come.

"Come in then!"

He did so, the floorboards creaking under his slow footsteps and the leather of his boots squeaking a little.

"Yours is the bed closest to the window."

She pointed.

"The bathroom is one floor down, the first on the left, and extra blankets can be found in the cupboard by Bill's bed; just in case you get cold."

He nodded, his damp hair clinging to his forehead as he let out a shudder: he was cold already. Seeing, as though for the first time, his state of being, she bounced over to him; catching him by surprise when she yanked the case from between his curled fingers and set it down roughly on the bed, slipping from the front of her apron a slim wooden rod.

Edward, unsure of what she was doing, took a hasty step back, drawing himself straight as he did so, but she was not deterred. She came to a halt barely a foot away from him, giving him a once-over before lifting what he assumed they called a 'wand' and tapping him lightly on the chest, just once.

A soothing, but unknown, heat washed through him from the point of pressure above his heart, sending a shivering rush of confused electricity down his spine and he felt...curiously comfortable, despite the pain that circled his shoulder and knee. It was only when he realised that his hair was no longer dangling around his neck in clumps of rat-tails that he noticed he was dry. Even his clothes, which had started up an incessant itching in the last hour, were no longer clinging to his skin, instead hanging naturally across his frame as though never having experienced such issues to begin with.

The stick was removed, and Mrs. Weasley drew back, frowning sternly at him.

"Why you didn't say anything I don't know; you must have been freezing!"

Edward stared at her. She ignored it.

"Supper should be ready in about 10 minutes, and if you want any, you would be more than welcome to join us. It would do you good."

She waited expectantly, her hands on her hips and newly replaced wand poking out of her pocket.

Edward continued to stare at her.

"Well?"

Blinking, he cleared his throat nervously, leaning away from her and towards the bed. Alluring though it might sound, he was tired, he was aching, he was nauseas and he was alone: the last thing he needed was to be presented to a room-full of yet more strangers.

"Thank you, but I am not needing anything except sleep. If I could stay here...?"

Her frown deepened, her gaze settling on the area of skin beneath his eyes. Did he really look that bad?

When she answered, she seemed reluctant.

"Fine, but make sure you ask should you need anything."

The responding nod was sent to the floor, his lids drooping and head sagging as he shuffled clumsily to his bed, sinking onto it with a barely restrained sigh, the firm mattress lifting the burden from the bruising sole of his foot.

He didn't look up as her steps groaned towards the door, but before she could close it after her, his voice sounded again; quiet under the noise of the outdoors.

"Thank you."

Her steps paused, and looking up, for the first time since he had arrived, Edward recognised a genuine smile, one that hid concern and confusion, but also an unspoken pleasure at being acknowledged.

"You're welcome, dear."

Then she left and the door was shut, not for the first time that day. The sounds of her descent to the lower levels of the house were muffled, but he listened for them nonetheless, wanting to be certain that he was alone before he relaxed completely.

Now, all he could hear was the furious rain.

The room was larger than what he would have expected, the walls exactly the same tone as those that he had seen before, and there was space enough for two beds across the half varnished floor boards, though it was clear that one had not been there previously.

Edward's bed was narrow and the mattress full of ill-placed springs as he ran a hand over it experimentally, the mid-blue material swirling in tracks after the patterns his progress made. It seemed comfortable enough: Briggs prison cells still held the title for the 'Worst Guest Rooms Ever' in his estimation, anyway.

At least this time there was something other than his coat available for warmth and protection.

And no handcuffs.

With a sigh that scratched up the back of his throat, Edward flopped sideways and down, his head landing just below the pillow and his legs continuing to dangle to the floor, working his boots off with his feet and only swinging the rest of him back up when there was a vibrating thud beneath him.

From the window inches behind his back, he could feel the odd gush of a chill breeze, seeping through what was probably a gap in the structure and stroking over his body, slipping under the coat he still wore and making his heated skin prickle uneasily. A flush had spread over him since he had settled; his head feeling swollen and heavy and his pulse throbbing beneath his eyelids, urging them to close and, moving hesitantly, he pushed the covers from under him and slung them tiredly across his aching shoulders, curling into himself as troubled sleep came calling.

The storm raged on.

* * *

Review? Please? I know it wwas boring, but please don't hate me!


	3. At Dusk, At Dawn

A/N: PLEASE READ THIS! And I do apologise for the length...

First of all, again, I'm hugely sorry about taking this long to update, but I've genuinely been working really hard at it, trying to get it to sound right...

I think I've failed.

Originally, this chapter would have continued for quite some time, but because of how long it was taking me to write it, I had to cut it down. But fear not! Everything that would have been in this chapter will be in the next one- with much in the way of Eddy goodness!

I'm pretty certain I've mentioned this before, but because I'm not going back to check, I'll say it again: this is manga-verse! That means that there is absolutely no correlation between Amestris and Germany! None whatsoever! In this story, Amestris is a part of our world, roughly around the Eastern Europe area, but I won't go into any specifics as to its exact location, because frankly, it wouldn't work. Sadly, fanfiction and the real world don't mix quite that well.

However, there are some countries that will be related to ones in our world: Xing, as will be made plain at some point, will simply be the Amestrian word for China, and Drachma the Amestrian for Russia. Things are just simpler that way.

When you read this, please, please, pleeeease don't hate me or ask me to change it or anything like that, because I have already warned that Ed wouldn't be the only main character in this, and I wasn't kidding! This chapter is purposefully slow, and I'm sorry if anyone gets bored, but it really had to be that way, and I couldn't cut it because it's rather vital to the storyline...you'll see why...one day...

I basically needed this chapter to act as a contrast to the last, and to the next, as there will be a significant number of fast-paced chapters within this story, and I need to even it out a bit.

I guess my main hope is that no one who reads this hates Ling Yao...

* * *

Chapter 2: At Dusk, At Dawn

It was hot.

Too hot.

He lay splayed against the cool concrete of his apartment wall, a pile of colour-drained cloths pushed into a structure resembling that of a crushed sofa, wrinkling to fit every crease of the decrepit flooring and cushioning his reclining figure from the unpleasant solidity of his surroundings. His head was pressed against a small of stretch of the vertical surface, the tip of his nose only just spared from the tired glare of the sun, its rays slinking into the cluttered space through the narrow opening above his legs.

The air was so heavy it was almost tangible, dust and the air-born seeds of parasitic plants swirled in a sleep-drugged haze about the window, rising on feeble gusts of wind that barely brushed his face and drifting lazily to the floor when that breeze died. His glazed eyes followed their steady wheels across the room, one olive-toned hand tugging limply at a twirl of loose white thread that fell from his frayed shirt, not the least bit mindful of the effort it would take to repair the now dropping hem as he wrapped the cord around his finger.

Even had he considered it, he would have felt no remorse: the clothes were plain, uninspiring: a white, short-sleeved shirt and black trousers; no footwear to speak of and no accessories. The only extravagance he could lay claim to was his hair, black, healthy and unusually long, the locks unbound and left to fall freely over his back, framing a long, clear-skinned face and arched brows.

The string, wound so tightly that it turned his flesh cream and red, had become painful. He removed it.

A groaning creak sounded from his right, and barely sparing a glance in the rotting door's direction, he heard the light steps of his retainer ghost in, side-stepping the heaped bundles of weapons, discarded clothes and cooking utensils and moving to the furthest window, where she remained for some time.

Probably checking for snipers, knowing her.

There was a shuffling; something was dropped to the floor, clattering before it settled, and shifting between invisibility and his peripheral sight, Lan Fan slipped over, joining him on the makeshift furniture out of the heat's reach. She did not sit: her knees were pushed tightly under her, and her back was kept straight as she faced him, her schooled expression reserved beneath her flop of dark hair.

As per her custom, she dipped her head forwards.

"Please excuse me, Young Master."

His eyes, a rich violet-black, rolled sleepily to hers, and with a look that said more than his amused exasperation ever could, he raised the long, fine-boned hand that had pulled at his clothes before and flapped at her to sit down.

Beside him, the creased sheets sank beneath her weight, and he returned to staring mindlessly out of his little window.

He could sense Lan Fan watching him still, probably with her usual mix of anxiety and attentive rigidity, searching for signs of displeasure so that she might be offered the chance to apologise for any non-existent misdemeanours committed in her grandfather's absence. But he, as he was so very proficient at doing, ignored it. Reassurances generally had no affect on her, much in the same way that punishment never had any on him, and so, pretending to be ignorant of her silly masochistic urges seemed to him by far the best option.

At the angle he was, he could see only a sliver of the city through the rough stretch of wall, and even that was obscured by greedy shards of light, entering low enough that they reached the opposite wall with ease, lengthening shadows and casting a slow amber glow over anything they touched. The grey flickers of birds would occasionally cross the bright sky, disturbing the otherwise stationary scene of towers of concrete and crumbling brick. Those moments never lasted long enough; he was tired of lifeless urban views.

He had been in Amestris for three years now, and far from it being a country of wealth and power, he had found it filled with poverty and degradation; districts such as this one being hidden from the public eye, but just as real as the politicians that had made them this way, neglecting the welfare of the city in favour of their own petty comforts.

This was West Central's outskirt town: an area renowned for housing the homeless, the dangerous and the criminally insane in its ruined complex and it certainly wasn't due to lack of trying that it hadn't been purged of said offenders. The building in which he and Lan Fan currently sat was one of the better ones: firm walls, floors and a ceiling were hard to come by, and he had been surprised when they had found it empty. But then Fu had reminded him that it was only one block away from real civilisation, and therefore the armed forces: no one with half a brain cell and a criminal record would ever consider living there.

Obviously, this was why Ling had insisted that they move right in.

He stirred uncomfortably. The back of his neck felt sticky, a few strings of hair clinging to his moist skin and irritating it further as he raised an arm and pushed a clump of its weight across his shoulder, running a hand over the damp pores in an effort to cool himself. The movement, though minor, was enough to cause heat to prickle over his body, and sighing, he stretched his neck away from his collar, hoping fresher air would be able to reach his confined chest and lessen the sensation.

It really was too hot.

He generally considered himself to be a man of tolerance, and indeed, there were many things that he could endure: three-hour long meetings to discuss the prosperity of local agriculture certainly grated against the ear, but he found that he was perfectly adept at feigning interest for extended periods of time. The Yao councillors, in all their great wisdom, had yet to notice that his shading his eyes with a hand was not a gesture of deep concentration, but rather a convenient means to disguise the fact that he'd zoned out within five minutes of being spoken at. Considering his position, it wouldn't be entirely unreasonable for him to simply leave, but, as always, he stuck it out 'til the very end.

So yes, he was tolerant.

But never, not once in all his short seventeen years spent travelling some of the hottest nations there were, had he discovered the ability to stand overwhelming, intense heat.

He blinked slowly. He had remembered something.

"Lan Fan."

His low voice hovered in the air, and it was a few moments before she realised she was being called for, her clouded eyes snapping back to intensity with a fevered unease, her lips already forming an apology. More than used to this, Ling, so as to be blatantly obvious, raised his gaze to the ceiling, a sighing smile lifting his slanting features. She halted, unsure, and hesitantly faced him, forgetting to bow and forcing back her original words.

"Young Master?"

It was such a timid sound; her mouth hardly moved when she spoke.

His smile broadened, and she shied in confused embarrassment as he leaned closer, heavy eyes glittering mischievously and an excited tension stiffening his strong shoulders.

"I was just wondering what you were doing: on your little walk, I mean." Ling's knees bent, drawing up to his chest and away from the hungry beams of light as he shifted nearer still, his previously drowsy voice lilting amusedly. "You certainly took your time."

He watched as the muscles in her face flickered in confusion, clearly nervous of her answer - and rightly so: Ling's present mood was one they both knew would lead to unprecedented amounts of embarrassment. Very one-sided embarrassment.

"I-I am afraid I don't quite-"

"Oh, but you do, don't you, Lan Fan?" Quite suddenly, he turned from her, directing his face towards the light and raising a sweeping hand to his brow, his eyelids shut as though to shield himself from some great sorrow. A fresh burst of warmth broke out over his skin. He took no notice. "I knew the moment you left!"

"Y-Young Master?"

When he spoke again, still in the ridiculously melodramatic tone he had developed so carefully over the years, his eyes shot open, squinting as the sun's glare hit them and thrusting his arms to the heavens, the thick locks of hair that had rested on his white sleeves sliding to accompany the inky sheet at his back.

"Your greatest secret!"

A pause.

His vibrant, impish gaze found hers, and he couldn't keep the bubbling grin from twitching at his expression when the plans that had danced through his mind were released in a whirl of soaring gesticulations.

"Your illicit affair with a handsome, blond Amestrian soldier, fresh from the front line on the borders of Drachma and happy in knowing that you will-"

"No! I-I..." Her cheeks, pale for one of her descent, had flushed a dappled maroon, her face directing itself to the floor to best disguise her humiliation, fringe swinging across it. "Young Master!"

She hoped he might stop: spare her feelings.

But, of course, Ling was not known for mature consideration of that sort.

"-Leave me for the comfort of his arms and his striking blue eyes. His uniform-"

"Please, Young-"

"But, you know," And now Ling faced her again, falsely solemn, very still and very close. The areas of his skin that the evening's brightness grazed turned gold, his purple irises mixed with amber. She felt the colour rise to her ears. "What hurts me most is that my dear Lan Fan, who has been with me so many years..."

His head shook slowly from side to side, radiating irredeemable sadness and disappointment. "What hurts the most, is that she cannot trust me with this secret. _You_ cannot trust me."

Now she was beyond mortified; the sun had lowered in past minutes, spreading to corners it had yet to touch, and the warmth coupled with her racing heart and burning head made her feel as though she would collapse from sheer disgrace, even though she knew- _knew_- he was teasing her.

"I-"

"No, it's too late now, Lan Fan. Perhaps..." Another exaggerated silence. "It is time for us to part ways."

"Young Master!"

His smirk was quick to form at the sight of her horror; stemming from both his behaviour and her own squeaking outburst, and his lips spread over his teeth further when a black-clad hand was clapped over her mouth, her grey orbs round.

"Yes, Lan Fan?"

He had tried, honestly tried, to school his features back into some semblance of seriousness, hoping to prolong the juvenile entertainment and forget the boredom of his heat-induced languor. But, on noting that the tips of her once crimson ears were now tinted a deep purple, and that she couldn't bring herself to even glance sparingly at his person, a full-throated laugh was pushed from his chest, echoing brightly around the humid room as his head knocked back against the wall.

Though he couldn't see her- his mirth had squeezed the skin covering his eyes too tight for them to fully open- he sensed her movement at his side and summoned an attempt at an apology, fighting to regain control.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! It's just-." A gasping chuckle. "-Sometimes, your face..."

Not the best he'd ever come up with.

He continued to choke back his laughter, teeth clamped down hard against his lower lip and arms folded around his curled body, the knuckles that gripped his elbows straining to keep their hold. Gradually, he calmed, muscles that he hadn't even realised were tensed relaxing as he allowed himself to sink into the bundled cloths beneath him. Lan Fan did the same, aware that she was unlikely to receive any more attacks now that he had run out of steam.

For a while, they were still.

The city was quiet; even the usually bustling streets of the markets, just a few blocks from them, were muffled; indistinct, the ringing voices of competitive vendors had not sounded even once. Perhaps it was too hot for business.

Ling's eyes tracked the progress of a long-winged insect across the room, its delicate veins flashing as it settled near the hollow shell of Lan Fan's mask, lying close to the furthest window. Dust-thin legs twitched slowly at the edge, and numbly curious, he flicked to her, wondering if she might have noticed, and if so, how she might react. But she hadn't seen: her focus was glazed.

He remained watching her, smiling wryly at the nearly-receded blush that still stained her cheeks, but Ling felt no compulsion to tease: he was content to merely look.

There was a harsh shout from below, the sound drifting from the cracked paths to their ears, loud yet distant.

Neither turned in its direction.

Ling's eyes traced the smooth outline of her profile, travelling along the curve of her jaw, the dark fabric that covered her neck, and finally halting at the start of gleaming metal, arranged in plates that reflected the sharp sunlight and that ended in blades, spikes and hardness meant only for killing. He frowned at it, hardly aware of himself. Ling had been the cause of its creation, of her pain, and now her numbness. He thought he understood, if only a little, how Ed felt.

Maybe she had needed its lethality today? Central was a dangerous place, and she would insist on wandering its roughest streets alone; all for the gathering of information that he wanted. He would go himself, but, without mentioning the particulars, both Fu and Lan Fan had persuasively 'advised' against it. It led him to wonder, on occasion, as to which of them was truly the more influential.

"So..."He couldn't help but ask: she rarely arrived back at dusk, and even when she did, it was always accompanied by her grandfather, in whose care Ling could guarantee her wellbeing. It wasn't as though he didn't believe her capable of defending herself – quite the contrary, as the occasional indignant slap had proved – but two presented a stronger front than one, and he would rather avoid the risk of his orders causing her further damage. "Why _did_ you take so long?"

His sombre tone had roused her quickly this time, and she fixed her most attentive stare on him, her expression sinking. Her answer came with inflections that matched his own: laced with a knowing quiet.

"There were more rumours."

Dread seeped through him.

"The same?"

She bowed her head.

"Yes."

He looked to his raised knees, glaring as though they might give advice should he push it from them, and drew his hands up his shins until they lay flat at his folded joints, fingers tapping rapidly.

It made no sense: this state's actions. Were they trying to declare open war on his country? Did they not realise the scale of sheer devastation that conflict with the Xingese Empire would create? Amestris would not survive it. But of course, they knew; what else had they been churning up since its founding? Blood was in this country's name, and it would remain so as long as _they_ lurked below its gutters.

Groaning, he dropped his head, too filled with trepidation to even wince when his brow collided with his own limbs, lifting his arms to wrap about them and hide his troubled reflections from Lan Fan.

"Anyone we know?"

The words were muted; spoken into his legs.

He could hear her ironic smile:

"There aren't many here we do know."

A hollow laugh blew through him.

"True."

Ling found himself unable to summon enough strength to move, so he remained where he was, almost thankful of the protection his head received from the sun at the expense of his arms. Lan Fan was stirring again, and he felt burning steel through the thin material of his shirt as her arm pressed lightly into him, the dull scrape of coarse sheets sounding as they shifted with her body.

"Young Master..."

Her pitch had lowered, and he sensed that her question would be a serious one. He wasn't sure he wanted to deal with more seriousness.

"Are we safe here?"

His eyelids, once closed to cool dry orbs, slid open to stare dully at blackness, the only light shining through cracks between crossed arms and legs. He was surprised she hadn't asked this sooner; when they had first heard the stories.

He answered the only way he could.

"About as safe as we can be."

"But these rumours," He could hear her hushed frustration at his evasiveness and his own temper bubbled irrationally in response, joining his worry in its relentless gnawing at his stomach. "Some of the things I hear on the street-"

"If they _are_ true," He sat upright, the muscles of his back taught; coiling along with the roiling pit of his insides. He glared directly ahead, concealing his glower behind his over-long fringe, parts of which were tangled from being flattened against his knees, and refused to turn to her. She didn't like it when he was angry. "If they really _are_ hunting Xingese people, then I don't think there's anything we can do; not without being caught ourselves."

"But-"

"I _know_," He pushed himself swiftly from the floor, hardly noticing his legs carry him to the far window until he leant his weight against it, arms locked and palms crushed to the jagged concrete, his hair spilling over his shoulders. The ally below was dark, the sun too low now to reach past the rooftops and illuminate its constricted path. It was empty. "It isn't safe."

Lan Fan had nothing to say to this, and Ling was glad: the silence allowed him time enough to calm down; to explain himself with greater clarity. He carefully removed his hands from the window ledge, frowning at the furious red lines that scored the centre. They took a long time to fade.

Turning slowly, he stepped to the wall beside the window, allowing his back to rest against its cooler surface; there was hardly a spark of light left in the room to preserve its blistering heat: only an indigo glow, barely enough to see by. He looked anyway, straight into Lan Fan's eyes.

His voice lost its edge.

"But we can't help, we can't fight, and we can't leave. We need to lie low, and even if we could cross the desert and alert my father –which we can't," And here his expression grew fierce once more, as though daring her to challenge him. "Because your arm would burn you to death- it would take several days of travel without transport, and by that time, they would have found us. If an opportunity to help arises, we will take it, but for now, we don't exist."

He knew that she understood; that she realised how difficult it was for him to say this. They were _his_ people. Whether or not they belonged to his clan, if he were to become Emperor – and it was that which he strived for daily – he would bear responsibility for all of them; it would be his job to protect, to punish and to direct, and for him, the former was of greatest importance.

But, if he were to be captured, or killed, or subjected to whatever this country was doing to his people, all of it would be in vain. The title would pass to one of his siblings, whose duty it would be to aid only their own clan, as that was what they had been raised to uphold. The other clans could be destroyed at the new regent's whim, and at the very least, any rivals to the throne could, and would, be disposed of.

They absolutely could not risk discovery.

Lan Fan had risen from her corner at his words, her steps tapping louder the closer she drew. He watched her walk, face blank and back slightly hunched; his eyes unblinking as she drew to a stop before his still frame. She was determined: her mouth was set in a firm line, her eyebrows almost severe, and when she addressed him, it was not as his servant.

"It's my duty to protect you, Ling. My Grandfather's too. Even if my arm _did_ burn me, I would cross that desert. It shouldn't be your job to concern yourself with my safety; I must be concerned with yours. I don't think it is safe here."

Ling's face cracked into a soft smile.

"I know. But that doesn't change anything."

The room was quiet again, seemingly empty but for steady breaths and the occasional shuffle of feet against the film of dirt that lay on split concrete, the grime sticking to the pads of Ling's unprotected toes. It itched. He pushed them together, unconsciously rubbing the grains from his skin and back to the floor.

It was darker now, and his sight, keen though it was, had yet to adjust to the gathering gloom; he shut his eyes, glad of no longer having to strain to make out even the simplest of details.

"How are you feeling?"

Ling imagined she must have misread his action as one of fatigue, and turned slowly to face her presence; feeling rather than seeing her corporeal form and shooting her a tight grin to prove her otherwise. Her presence smiled back: a frowning smile, he decided.

"Hot."

He sensed a bland look from her next, and, smirking a little, he reiterated.

"...I'm fine." A foot shifted. "So far, there have been no problems."

"Good." Lan Fan did not seem entirely satisfied though, and the focus that had once been held by his face shifted lower. The back of his left hand tingled. "What about _him_?"

Despite the years that had passed since his possession of Ling, her disgust for Greed's very existence had not lessened in the slightest.

"The same as yesterday."

"You're certain of this?"

A rush of air left his mouth, supposedly a laugh.

"Of course; look at my eyes; look at my hand!" His lids parted; the dimming violet colour boring into her grey before switching to the said shadowed skin, a faded red symbol, writhing, vicious and devouring its own tail, only just visible on its surface. "And anyway, he told me himself."

The way he said it suggested conviction, as though with that, the matter was concluded.

She disagreed.

"But are you _sure_ he was telling the truth?"

"He never lies."

There was no hesitation; only sincerity.

They both knew that however much she disliked the monster that had nestled avariciously into her master's blood, that this was an indisputable truth.

She still waited for an answer, and he gave one after a time, sounding out a heavy monotone that bordered on a drawl.

"...But, yes. His presence is weaker, he no longer even attempts to take control, and sometimes," His foot scraped across the floor again, and he watched the dust rise in a flurry beneath it; thoughtful. "I can't hear him when he's trying to speak."

Lan Fan caught his meaning the instant it was given, and she stepped closer, peering up to his face warily. It was carefully unreadable: eyebrows straight, mouth relaxed and jaw loose, yet the skin around the only eye she could see was stiff, gaze directed to the floor.

"Does it upset you?"

He seemed to consider, his head rising only to roll back into the wall, his lashes flickering 'til they touched his lids as he glanced over the ceiling's many cragged imperfections. His hands, now trapped between his back and the hard surface, pushed, rocking him to and from it, swaying steadily.

"In a way, maybe." He swallowed, clearing his throat, and his voice grew minutely clearer. "I'm used to him: all his snide comments and his rants..." A pause. "He's been there a while now, and I think I'll miss him."

Her eyebrows twitched: he noted the hidden concern with dry humour and halted his rocking, his hands still once again.

"But then I remember what he is, and what he's done, and suddenly, the idea of losing him doesn't seem quite so bad."

She made a sound that resembled relief disguised as amusement, the faint evening light and the glow of early city fires glancing off the glassy surfaces of her eyes.

"I should hope not. I look forward to the day that my Young Master's eyes return: it might be the royal colour, but I've always preferred black to purple."

He smiled gently and looked away, his hair dragging its way over his shoulder to hang towards the floor.

There was silence again.

The sky, or what Ling could see of it, was a wash of purples and dark blues, the horizon dyed a sandy brown where it touched Amestris' buildings. It was not yet dark enough to reveal the stars, and the moon would not travel to their window for some time as it rose from a point a way to the right. Inky blackness could be no more than half an hour from them, though, and Amestris knew it: with each passing minute another spark blazed through the growing gloom.

Lan Fan made a slight movement, her elbow, thankfully the softer one, nudging him in the rib as she faced the door.

"Grandfather's on his way."

He gave a nod.

"Mm. I can feel him."

The familiar presence was indeed growing nearer, a small flash of security that strode casually through meandering streets, gradually making its way towards the tall, mud-coloured building in which no fire was lit, and no sound clamoured.

Ling grimaced, turning slightly so that his left shoulder, rather than the broad stretch of his back, was pressed against the wall. The movement caused Lan Fan to glance up at him, searching as his frown deepened and lips parted, the edges of his teeth glimmering as a lamp flared to life in the building across from them.

"While you were gone, you didn't happen to hear anything of Ed, did you?"

She blinked, realising why he had asked.

"No, I didn't."

He looked to the floor, a finger reaching to the falling hem of his shirt, fiddling until the string zipped across the edge, unravelling further. He twisted it again.

"...Maybe we go the date wrong."

"We didn't."

He considered a moment more, twirling the thread around his finger as another stitch came loose, and another, and another.

"He forgot?"

Her head shook; breath puffing as his once hopeful face sank comically, knowing that he understood how pointless a question it had been as he dragged his long fingers over his scalp, pulling back the fine, weighty threads from his still-hot crown. But when he reached the back of his skull, he paused.

Lan Fan threw a confused frown at his distracted expression, as, shoving his free hand unceremoniously into his trouser pocket, he crossed the floor lightly to his bundled sheets, squinting with purpose as he went.

Bewildered, she trailed after him, nearly tripping over what she could barely identify as a water flask and wondering whether her questioning his peculiar actions would be even slightly productive.

She doubted it.

Ling, having finished scrabbling about in his pocket, instead set about wreaking havoc with the occupants of the floor; tearing through the pile of ragged cloths, flipping past his long-neglected shoes (to which he made a noise of mildly surprised recognition) and even scraping empty cans of cheap food from his path in his agitated search.

This, perhaps, meaningless destruction having continued for several minutes more than it should, Lan Fan was steeling herself to ask the dreaded; to cut across the prince's mad scuffling, clanging and general din when he, without any prior warning, straightened from his crouch, a clenched fist punching the air in mysterious triumph.

"Yes!"

Before she had a chance to react, he was standing, a hand passing over his face as he turned to her, and, gaze centring on his lips, she discovered the source of his enthusiasm.

She sighed.

"Young Master, it might have been easier to ask. I knew where it was."

"Yes," His words slurred through clenched teeth, the thin strip of white caught between them twitching as his mouth moved; his hands busy dragging his curtain of hair to the nape of his neck. "But that would take the joy out of the hunt. You wouldn't want to be a killjoy, would you, Lan Fan?"

Ribbon removed from his lips and wrapped firmly around the slippery locks, he cast an accusatory look at her, as though there were no crime more heinous than that of being a 'killjoy'.

"Certainly not, Young Master."

Her sarcasm was promptly discarded.

Ling turned away, padding back to the window with an easy gait, though she realised that his mind had wandered off-topic again: he hadn't sought to continue their game and his quiet was contemplative.

Lights had flared across the city now, the frame in which he stood brighter than before and the shadows of Ling's straight face manipulated through means available only to the night. He looked different.

"Ed's never missed a meeting before." He glanced to her briefly, his voice sober, before his eyes returned to the mass of fiery concrete. "I can only assume that he's been issued some inconvenient orders."

"Yes."

He huffed, his shoulders and back shrugging as he leant down a little further, his elbows folding over each other and chin sinking to meet them.

"I guess it'll have to wait 'til he gets back."

The corners of Lan Fan's mouth lifted at the sight and, unconsciously, her thoughts turned to food: the finding, making and consuming of. She hadn't eaten for hours.

"At least he'll have some good news, for once."

His answering smile was evident.

"Hm."

Barely discernable past the sounds of emerging nightlife, the jangling of pans as they were knocked together and the relaxed exchange of meaningless conversation, the familiar tread of Fu was heard echoing through the black alleyway.

* * *

The first thing to register in Edward's mind was that the rain had stopped.

The rumbling crash of trembling water and air against the weak structure in which he slept had ceased, his ears, now oddly accustomed to its drumming ferocity, ringing with a new emptiness, unsure of what might be left to fill them. There was not much: only a gentle, slow tap of falling droplets, their wet forms clinging desperately to the edge of the little window before they could grip no more, bellies grown too fat from absorbing their companions and plummeting, silently, to the sill. He watched them drop through bleary, hooded eyes, rogue clumps of hair obscuring his vision and tickling at his skin.

At some point during the night he must have grown cold, because now, rather than resting against the pillow, as the average sleeper might, he was instead curled tightly under his pile of blue blankets, head poking reluctantly towards the less exhaustible supply of oxygen in the open room rather than suffocating in comfort.

He was less comfortable now: he could not clearly recall when or how he had fallen unconscious, but it had obviously happened before the removal of his clothes, all of which had twisted in disagreeable positions over the lines of his aching body.

He shifted groggily.

Not only displaced, it seemed; the layers that touched his feverish skin were almost literally glued in place and immediately after realising this, he discovered an urgent need to rid himself of them.

He loathed the sensation of being unclean.

If Drachma had taught him anything, it was that hygiene was a thing to be treasured.

He moved again, this time with a little more energy, and groaned into a hunching crouch, the blankets tangled about his tattered frame and hair both knotted and matted to his skull – quite the achievement for one not normally so a violent sleeper.

The light, although dim since the sun had yet to rise beyond rolling hills of grass, burned into his sleep-ridden, dilated pupils, clamping the lids shut until he assumed they had contracted enough to be usable.

A perfunctory blink.

They had.

An unpleasant taste lingered at the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly, running his heavy tongue over his teeth and grimacing at the rough, cloying feel of a mouth that had neither eaten nor been washed out in hours. He really needed to find a bathroom.

Shrugging off his overcoat and struggling out of his constraints with enough drowsy gusto that the bed springs creaked, Edward slipped his legs to the floor, rumpled socks surfing over unrefined floorboards in search of his boots, only realising he had happened across one when his foot made contact with something solid, the push prompting it to topple sideways.

There was a thud.

And then, quite suddenly, there was a grunt.

Edward froze at the sound, one foot still poised above his shoe, and realised – cursing himself for having taken so long to remember in the first place – that this was not his own room; that this house belonged to complete strangers, and that the person in the other bed was not one he had even spoken to before now.

The figure grunted again, jerking under the sheets in agitation, and for a moment of irrational panic, Edward feared it would wake up; discover him sneaking away and feel obliged to start asking awkward questions. Edward hoped it wouldn't: it was far too soon to be practicing a foreign language.

Much to his eternal relief, however, after kicking one long, hairy leg from beneath the bunched cloth, the flailing being saw fit to return to its previous slumber, leaving Edward to swipe scuffed boots from the floor, grab his battered suitcase from beside them, and attempt to cross the squeaking panels without falling over, his eyes still half shut.

It was only after the fourth step that he realised he was limping.

He stopped at the door, a hand waiting to open it, and searched for the source. There was no pain, although he realised there had been plenty the night before; enough to cause dizziness and a tender stomach, but when pressing his weight onto his left foot, he realised the problem. His leg was numb.

This was not an unusual after-effect for him having been exposed to a storm, but it was an inconvenience: full mobility often returned after nearly a whole day, and in his opinion, that was a day too long. Especially when that lack of mobility could cause shaking, loss of balance and stiff extremities.

It was for these reasons that his luggage exchanged hands, items being placed carefully into his right as the stiff, metal joints coiled around them, not quite as securely as he was telling them to. His left reached for the handle, turning gently, and feeling for the sudden pressure that would have iron planes grating against each other in a dream-shattering screech, changing the angle at which he pulled when he knew they touched.

But then the door opened, and groaned.

Loudly.

He was through it before the unidentified occupant could so much as toss in annoyance; latch clicking shut behind him and toes catching at the edge of his trousers, one of the legs dragging since the material had managed to ride down his hip. He stumbled slightly, but righted himself, muttering angrily about clothes coming in 'indecent proportions' and hobbling past the row of pale windows to the dark passage of the stairs.

Aside from his own uneven footsteps, the house was silent, apparently still resting despite the ever-brightening glow that filtered through dusty glass and the lively cries of birds as they saluted the dawn. Edward spared a brief glance through the rippled transparency, admiring – though he used that term lightly – the dull green patches of forest that littered the horizon, trunks bent by the wind and colour faded to one not dissimilar to that of the sky; water-grey and sallow.

The colours of Amestris had been so much bolder, so much brighter.

He turned away.

The stairs moaned under his tread, but he found he was no longer concerned by the sound; he was trying to remember his directions. The plump woman – Molly, if remembered rightly – had mentioned the bathroom the night before, but the comment had been passing, and his pain-fuddled brain had been too occupied with thoughts of sleep to comprehend the noises rushing past her mouth.

'_One floor down, first on the left...'_

He was relatively certain that these had been her words, and now having arrived on said floor, the corner of his suitcase digging ruts in his thigh, he was comforted to discover the compact but practical space he had been searching for, hidden neatly behind the first door to his left.

It, like the rest of the house, was coated thickly in an off-white paint, the surfaces raised in areas where the plaster had been laid unevenly and mottled by odd stains of water or chemicals where close to the sink. Its layout was simple: one bath (rusted at the feet), a lavatory, a lop-sided cupboard and a mirror above the basin. There was little light, the only source being a rectangular window above the door, seemingly opening into the hallway to steal the beams from there and throw it over the white tiles at his feet.

He supposed that it could have been similar to his own back home, were it not for the medley of brightly coloured bottles, sponges and varieties of soap dotted about the minimal surfaces, some of them sporting molten rings at their bases from careless hands neglecting to fasten the lids; contents having spilled over the sides.

Fleetingly, he smiled.

_Her_ bathroom was definitely the messier: coated in oil and besieged with wrenches, bolts and wires – the latter of which he was quite certain should _not_ have been there – and that wasn't even close to the worst of it. Edward had known he had a reason to worry when he had tripped over a half-assembled limb in the middle of the night, the monstrosity having been propped up by the towel rack, but he knew better than to confront her on the matter; wiser to hope that it disappear than chance another dent to his skull.

He swore the last had left a bump.

His thoughts lingered a moment longer, happy with wallowing in peaceful memories of sun and smiles.

And then he remembered the present; why he was here, and what that meant.

His smile faded.

Throwing his possessions to the tiled floor, the contents rattling piercingly, he wrenched the door beside him shut, uncaring of who slept nearby and how much noise was made as the key was turned swiftly in the lock, snapping firmly into place. He stood there, motionless and tense, his eyes focused on the gloved, twitching hand of his automail as it remained hovering where it was, his bottom lip pulled under his teeth and brows curved anxiously.

He shouldn't think on it; he _mustn't_ think on it. He could not afford the distraction.

Edward spun sharply, ripping white material from his fingers and flinging it down as he strode to the cluttered sink to glare at his reflection, arms braced at either side as he leaned in close.

He was a mess.

Ashen, drawn features stared with a dead intensity from beneath dirty cords of hair that fell loose over his shoulders and shadowed jaw, sticking to his damp neck and forehead. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, the irises glazed and sickly and the tissue beneath was bruised blue, shining unhealthily; gaunt.

The surfaces of them burned.

His collar was undone, the shirt translucent where it was stuck to sweat-soaked muscles and had been dragged across his torso until his collarbone was revealed, hard and protruding.

His flesh hand reached up to the first button that clothed his chest, his right still gripping the basin, clumsily popping it through the hole and allowing his wrist to fall to the next one, usually nimble digits working impatiently. The garment was peeled off; thrown to the side, and without pause, he twisted the tap-head and thrust his palms beneath the stream of water that gushed out, splashing it over his face and trying to ignore the icy trickles that wormed their way through his scalp.

One drop hit the floor.

The splash was drowned as the second tap turned.

* * *

Yeah...I know, it's nowhere near as tense or exciting or anything as the last one, but please be kind, and please review! I tried so hard with this to get it done quickly...but it didn't work...

I'm sorrrrryyyyyy!

Don't hate me...


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